


Into The Face Of Time

by Moransroar



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Heals, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Credence Barebone-centric, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Snippets, Time Skips, but only brief mentions of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 06:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16571573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moransroar/pseuds/Moransroar
Summary: It was the ninth of November, and Credence woke knowing exactly what day it was. That particular date hadn’t meant much of anything since he turned seven. This year, though, as he woke his bed was soft and he was warm, and for a moment he allowed himself to think that maybe things were different.





	Into The Face Of Time

**Author's Note:**

> It's been...a while since I last wrote something, so this might not be really great. Wrote it in honour of someone's birthday. I don't have a beta so mistakes might make an appearance. That said, enjoy!

It was the ninth of November, 1915, and Credence woke knowing full well what day it was – because as he opened his eyes, his mother stood by his bed with a smile and opened her arms for him. Credence pushed away the bedsheets and climbed up into the woman’s lap, where he was met with the flowery smell of her perfume and a light, sweet laugh at the way he clung to her collar so that he could lean up and plant a fat, wet kiss to her cheek. She indulged him, like she always did, even though his father sometimes said that he was getting a little bit too old for these kinds of antics.

Whenever his father would say this, his mother turned to him and shot him a discrete wink. He’d never be too old for cuddles. That was a promise she’d made. And she had yet to break a promise.

The day passed in a blur of hugs from his mother, hair ruffles from his father, glazed pastries and small packages and board games, and ended with a hearty meal and a bedtime story and a goodnight kiss.

Credence fell asleep that night already thinking about next year.

His mother had promised it would be even better than this year.

And she had yet to break a promise.

 

It was the ninth of November, 1916, and Credence woke knowing full well what day it was – though he was not sure what to expect. Before Mary Lou Barebone had so generously taken him in after what had happened to his parents, days like these were spent smiling, laughing, enjoying themselves. Despite the cold outside those days were warm and pleasant, spent together if work permitted it, and even if it didn’t they would always find a way.

But the Barebone family was new, and Credence understood that it meant that he should keep his expectations low as he could get them, yet as he pulled himself out of bed and got dressed he found himself jittery and excited for what was to come. He went downstairs and was met with the chill of the foyer that seeped through the cracks between the big wooden front doors, and he hugged his arms a little tighter around himself. So far, it wasn’t like the warm, pleasant days he remembered, but he wouldn’t let that foul his mood just yet.

Mary Lou was awake and at the stove, and Chastity came down the stairs seconds after he had descended the rickety steps. Credence beamed as he approached his new mother, sitting down at the table, hands wringing together in anticipation.

“You two best eat your breakfast quickly so that you may get to work soon, children,” Mary Lou said. Credence thought it meant that they would then have more time that night, so he eagerly dug into his usual plain gruel with more vigour than he had before, driven mostly by the thought that the sooner he’d get to work, the sooner he’d see what this new family of his had in store.

The day was spent out in the cold, shivering through his thin coat and trying to rub the chill out of his fingers as he handed out pamphlets, and back home he tended to his chores. All in all, it was a day like any other, but Credence still had hope for the night.

But as night fell, dinner passed by in a rush of watery soup and stale bread and little to no conversation across the table. Mary Lou checked if they’d done their chores, then set them about their nightly routine, and without another word of acknowledgement of the date or even a goodnight kiss or a hug, Credence was sent up to the cold and dark of his small room. And because he feared being reprimanded, he didn’t dare say a single word to suggest that he’d expected something else from that day. He just lay awake well into the early morning, unable to get comfortable around the lumps in his bed and unable to stop thinking about last year when things had been so different.

Credence fell asleep that night missing his parents more than he ever had before.

Because his mother had lied.

He’d grown too old for hugs.

 

It was the ninth of November, 1923, and Credence woke knowing full well what day it was – and he knew exactly what to expect. The change of the season that year had brought a harsh cold with it that tore through every single layer of clothing Credence put on, however many he tried. Downstairs, Chastity had their breakfast ready so that he could shovel it down quickly and find his way to the streets.

Because even though it was so cold he might freeze to death in his worn shoes and too-few layers and no proper coat, it was better than to stay in and face Mary Lou’s perpetual foul mood.

She had been calm and collected for a while when she’d first taken Modesty in, but now that the little girl had grown used to the household, that mask had fallen away. The woman wore a permanent scowl now which only eased up ever so slightly to something that could be mistaken for merely stern and serious when the children came to lunch, but it was otherwise ugly and demeaning and cold. Colder even than the snow that had begun to fall that same morning.

Credence swallowed down his gruel without tasting it (which was for the best, really, even though the way Chastity made their breakfast tasted a touch better than the way their Ma did) and was out the door with his leaflets before anyone could protest.

It was for the best.

Not only because he didn’t want to provoke his Ma into giving him lashes, but also because he felt an unfamiliar flame of anger boil searing hot in his gut if he so much as laid his eyes upon her. It was unfair, he knew, because she’d sacrificed so much for him, and she’d helped him get back on his feet after what had happened to his parents, but still there was that anger. And the very last thing that Credence wanted to do was lash out at her. So he fled, and wandered the streets until he couldn’t avoid going back to the church so that he could finish his chores before dinnertime, lest he get no supper at all.

But he wasn’t lucky.

Lately he thought he’d never be lucky in this household again.

His hands trembled as he served himself soup and he accidentally bumped his plate against his glass, which had the plate tilting, hot soup running over his hand and splashing on the table, and even before he could feel the burn forming on his skin he could feel the disappointed rage from across the table.

His routine that night was slightly different than his usual.

A long speech on wasting food and being an ungrateful, sinful child waited for him at the foot of the stairs up to his room, followed by several lashes, before he was sent up without an drop of dinner in his stomach or a wet cloth for his burns, and immediately to bed.

Credence didn’t fall asleep that night.

Sweet, brave Modesty had snuck into his room later, and offered him a hug.

But he couldn’t.

He was too old for hugs.

 

It was the ninth of November, 1926, and Credence woke not knowing what day it was – he couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten to bed the night before.

Things had gotten strange lately. Days blurred together, he didn’t know what he did or where he was or _who_ he was half of the time, but it was better this way. Not remembering meant that time passed without as much pain as he was used to. Not being conscious meant not being aware of the aches and the fear and the torment that was living in the Barebone household. He went about his chores that day, relieved to find a stack of pamphlets waiting to be distributed because it meant that he could flee. It was what he was best at, after all.

But, fleeing nowadays also meant the chance of running into the only man that seemed to see him these days.

A man that promised him greatness, whispered of magic, and told him that a lot depended on _his_ deeds. Not anyone else’s. Credence’s. It was a big responsibility, but he took it with both hands because he hadn’t felt useful for anything but protecting Modesty by diverting their Ma’s anger to himself since the woman had deemed his little sister old enough for the same punishments.

He couldn’t find the child, but the man was patient.

Credence had grown a little fond of him, even, though he would never dare say something like that.

They met in an alley, as they oftentimes did, the man’s voice low as he spoke to Credence.

That day, he was gifted a necklace, and given something that he could only describe as a hug, and for the briefest of moments he was taken back to when he was a child.

Credence fell asleep that night thinking about him.

They’d find the child together, and once Credence had proven his worth, a whole new world would present itself before him. The man had promised that. He’d promised him great things.

And he had yet to break a promise.

 

It was the ninth of November, 1927, but Credence didn’t know what day it was – he’d lost track of the passage of time long ago (or what felt like long ago anyway). Not that it mattered. He didn’t have a home, didn’t have a friend in the world, didn’t have anything to return to or anyone to seek out. The only person that he’d learned he could really count on was himself and whatever was protecting him from the inside out, so he spent his days wandering mindlessly, aimlessly, following no certain path and really just waiting for his energy reserves to run out so that he could find a place to rest his head and not have to think about anything anymore ever again.

He felt lost, and betrayed, and hurt. Cold. Confused. Disoriented. He might have still been in New York but he might also have drifted elsewhere, maybe across the country, maybe across the world.

But nobody was looking for him so it didn’t matter where he ended up.

Credence drifted in and out of sleep, in and out of conscious, rarely really taking shape because he didn’t know how to ground himself both physically and mentally.

Sometimes he could see things; shapes, lights, or even people.

Sometimes he could hear things; music, people, automobiles, factories.

And then there were vast periods of nothing.

He took comfort in the thought that he might be dead, but if death was like this then even death was not a great comfort.

That day, as any other day, was spent in a haze. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he’d formed a body once more, only because he could feel the strain in his legs from the amount of walking he’d done. Slowly but surely the wind registered, whipping through his hair, which had grown, harsh and cold and biting his skin. If it hadn’t been for the freezing temperatures then he might have noticed his hands, but they were numb by his sides as he ploughed on through the first signs of snow falling.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking for, but at a certain point his feet gave out under him and he landed on the slippery wet surface of a concrete pavement. For a moment, he thought maybe this was it. He’d given up a long time ago, but now his body was finally catching up with that state of mind as well, sagging against the wall beside him.

His body was too numb to feel the hands that grabbed at him. His mind too far gone to hear the concerned voices of strangers. He couldn’t focus, but he thought, briefly, that he heard his name.

The next time he woke he was warm, laid out comfortably, though the exhaustion only kept him awake for a mere minute or so. Just about enough for his senses to pick up a few things.

He fell asleep that night with a vaguely familiar accented voice nearby, talking in hushed tones to someone with a similar accent.

The cold seeped from his body slowly with the warm fire kindled close, the crackling lulling him into his fitful slumber.

This seemed much more like the kind of afterlife he’d enjoy.  

 

It was the ninth of November, 1930, and Credence woke knowing exactly what day it was – and his bed was soft and comfortable. So much so that he didn’t want to move, didn’t want to open his eyes for fear of finding out it had all been a figment of his desperate imagination. That particular date hadn’t meant much of anything since he turned seven, but for a moment he allowed himself to think that maybe things would be different this year. All he did to show that he was awake was trying to pull the bedsheets further up to cover himself, trying to get it all the way to his nose, but it would only go so far.

Something at the foot of the bed stopped it. A weight, right by his legs, preventing him from being able to cover himself against the few rays of sun that broke through the undoubtedly dark clouds just outside and which fell in through the window and right onto his forehead. He gave a soft noise of complaint, and the weight chuckled.

“Come on, Credence. It’s well past eleven. However much I imagine you’d like to remain right where you are, I’ll have you know that if you do your bath is going to go cold.”

Credence resisted the urge to huff through his nose.

_Like you’d ever let that happen_.

He decided that if he couldn’t pull the sheets up, he’d bring himself down to that level, so he wiggled under the covers until his head was very nearly entirely swallowed up by warm, soft fabric until only the top of his head was visible and he had successfully shielded himself from the sun.

It earned him another chuckle and a tentative kiss on the head. “Happy birthday, my boy.” And then the weight was gone.

Credence took his time getting up; he stretched leisurely, lay about for a few more minutes, got himself into the bathroom to soak in the bathtub for a good while until his fingers pruned, then followed the smell of coffee and fresh pastries into the kitchen so he could enjoy breakfast in a soft robe and thick woollen socks.

He spent the rest of his day in the company of his newfound friends from whom he received new books to read, flowers, a navy scarf for the harsh winter that was to come, a beautiful fountain pen and leather-bound journal to use for his current studies, more of his favourite pastries with custard filling for dessert after their lavish dinner together, and a total of hugs that surpassed the combined amount he’d received his entire life before that day.

And when all their guests had gone he received one last thing: a promise.

It was unlike any promise anyone had ever made to him, punctuated with a searing kiss and a beautiful ring on his finger. And although Credence was sceptical of promises from past experiences, and despite knowing that he’d already given so many people so many chances they didn’t deserve, he knew that this man would do anything in his power to make Credence happy. As he had been doing for the past few years since they’d found each other again.

And besides, Percival was different.

He’d suffered unkept promises too, from a handful of the same kind of people Credence had. They’d weathered it. They’d gotten out the other end stronger than before, and they would do so again. Whatever life threw at them, and most importantly – together.  

Credence fell asleep that night in the arms of the first man he’d ever truly allowed himself to love and be loved by in return, a tangled mess of limbs and warm skin and soft breaths.

And this time he knew that next year would be okay.

And the year after.

And the year after.

After all, a promise was a promise. And this time around the man who made it would never, ever break it. He’d said it himself.

“Till death do us part.”

 


End file.
